our Father…
I intone it
into the stillest night
as a mantra,
encoded with
my silent
sacrosanct desires,
nestled in the wombs
of rounded vowels
I am foetal/ prostrated/
inept
in the mystery of
illumined tongues, merely
offering my infant mandala -
an uncultivated splash of infantile art
to merge me into that sacred Name
which may not be known
©
artwork: andrew shiels – very talented man
a rarity recovered
from the unplumbed
flashlands –
the
virile sovereign
of six
boasts his
iridescent plume
of conquests,
dancing and preening
before the
reverent and gaudy
harem -
the tainted treasures
of paradise
lost/found
while I
am scarcely a bird –
an ancient
earthbound;
crooning
thing
with softest down
and furled wing
© 18-09-09
fingers clench
starfish bow to sun
and rest
gridlike
upon the contours
which beg
a kiss from
the scalpel – or
the blunt border
of your damning
tongue –
with sufficient valour
i could peel
away
the façade on
this day or
any other
to weave a
fine garland of
cherry to adorn
your wrist –
fleshly kalava
to ward you
against the very eyes
i cannot face
©
01/5/09
I want to speak in
diminutive font and text
(small equals secret)
I cant fit the words
In their giant shoes, through
Fissures in the bricks
The walls move inward
So my hands can’t reach upward
To scale them anymore
So I gaze, and grieve -
One ear against stone, and the
Other closed to truth
While you build a bridge
You may cross between the two
Which will entomb me
©
(image: blank slates album cover) – appropiate?
i dont rightfully know. i was unable to access for a bit, and then the bluidy whole thing crashed – took me a while to find my way back in.
i’m not really in a position to offer anything here right now, and i make a fucking sad wall-flower – daft daisy in bleaks and blacks.
the words may be hibernating (at best) and they may just have died of starvation – and lie rotting their ursine arses off.
i know where they are – i know the stone that blocks the entrance – i moulded it – from my despair – the need to conform/to trip the switch that triggers any outward emotion. survival. little thing.
but. see…
i miss my friends here. most when i read your words from back in the day before the mental ice age. i wish i could write and bring you back again.
maybe someday. soon. fekkity – please let it be soon.
ben, blugirl, frankie; maskman, tazzy, herc; dolly, mike; detective girl – i’m a bloody lousy mate.
sorry. i’ll try harder. dinkum.
do trees fall
silently, calamitously, at all?
- as birds
cast thunder
between wings
that grace with prophesying gray;
crest the glass walls,
drown in the undiluted red ribbons
of a failing day?
They fall.
I pray.
©
This hand is prosthetic
attached for
aesthetic splendor only -
nerves severed
so many speechless nights ago
I will the words to dance
away from each stilled fingertip
- beg them into being
with chemically stifled pleas
wish and chant and rock
wail my stunted dirge,
these dumb digits
wring and clench their fury
a mimed opera – that fails to entertain
weary dragonflies
they are folded wings
over eyes that see -
clear and hot, with clarity
cat sister/night wise
this hand
tries
and fails
the word cannot bleed,
the word cannot self devour
the word cannot weave a dream
of flying and laughing and falling and dying
it births no songs,
sad hymns
that reach the deaf -
nor paints in bleaks and blacks
the ceiling of despair
this hand
my hand
dead…
hand only
©
(blues club by steve underwood – master mood capturer)
.
breathe…
shallow; apologetic -
forward
to that one great
gulp
which promises
much.
free; strident
ululation
of conquest
flesh
withers; recedes
vascular starburst
blooms
into being -
newest; bravest
me
hear me sing -
crowned
asylum queen
diva
in the dark
stalking; mutilating -
a thousand small
deaths
with
unsuitable prey
in too few days -
magenta
watercolour
memoirs
©
of words, that is…
i seem to be struggling more than usual to order my thoughts… but i continue to be transported by the power of the words that flow from others.
so -
i’ve created a page (down under-left – titled ‘word feasts’) to share bits from writers that awe me…and i reckon quite a few of you will appreciate them too.
the moon rises in my back yard. the cam blurred the darned image for at least 10 clicks – and finally i caught her – not quite what i had hoped, but rewarding nonetheless… and i could understand the tales of the moon being made of cheese. this was a golden moon.
